


Misery Loves Company

by Hours_Gone_By



Series: TF Rare Pair Fills [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Community: tf_rare_pairing, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, tf-rare-pairing Weekly Request Response
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 23:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hours_Gone_By/pseuds/Hours_Gone_By
Summary: Dreadwing and Knock Out commiserate over their losses. That's how it starts.





	Misery Loves Company

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [TF Rare Pairings](https://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org) TF: Prime prompt, [December 16, 2018:](https://tf-rare-pairing.dreamwidth.org/1555720.html#cutid1) Dreadwing/Knockout: misery loves company

Knock Out looked up when the door to the storage room Breakdown had kept their high-grade secured in swished open. The room had been dark, lit only by the dim glow of the energon cubes and the lenses of his optics constricted abruptly in the sudden wash of brighter light; he blinked as he reset them. He was sitting on a low crate and had to look up uncomfortably far to see his visitor.

“Sorry,” Knock Out drawled, disappointed to note that he wasn’t slurring his words yet. Clearly, he was nowhere near overcharged enough. “You’ll have to find your own storage room. This one’s full up on – “ He waved a hand to generally indicate his miserable, if gorgeous, self and the glowing cubes of high-grade sitting on the shelves next to him. “Well, you get the idea.”

“Indeed,” Dreadwing observed, looming in the doorframe. “I see you have found a place to seek solace over the loss of Breakdown. May I offer a more hospitable location?”

“Sorry, _first lieutenant_ ,” Knock Out huffed. “I’m not looking for _that_ kind of consolation.” He raised the cube of high-grade he still held in a salute in Dreadwing’s general direction. “This is all I want right now.” He frowned down at the cube. There was still too much of it. For someone determined to get blackout overcharged he wasn’t making nearly enough headway. Easy enough to fix if _someone_ would just leave him alone and let him get back to it.

“You mistake my meaning,” Dreadwing informed him. “I mean only that my quarters offer more comfortable furnishings than a crate – and fewer memories than your own.” He added, in a slightly quieter rumble, “when one has shared one’s spark since before activation, it can be a difficult thing to be alone.”

Knock Out’s head jerked up again, and he stared at Dreadwing for a moment. Blinked. Decided.

“Well then,” the doctor said, standing, far more steadily than he wanted to be capable of just then, and gesturing toward the pile of high-grade cubes. “Load up. I can’t carry all of this myself.”

Dreadwing nearly smiled and entered the room, filling it almost the way Breakdown would have. Knock Out banished the thought immediately. Getting overcharged in front of the new first lieutenant was one thing. Getting _emotional_ in public (i.e. any space containing more sapient beings than Knock Out) was another. And since he was the ship’s only doctor, during a war, and thus could be required _in public_ at any time without warning, well, there you had it: another reason to get absolutely hammered right now.

Keeping one’s emotions in check was difficult but Knock Out could repair Vehicons and Eradicons in his sleep. Officers tended to be a little trickier, seeing as they were more individualized, but there were some standard parts he could fix almost by tensor memory alone.

Knock Out was aware that Dreadwing’s quarters were somewhere near his own, naturally. All the ship’s officers were quartered in roughly the same area. They all looked the same, too: two chairs, low table, a desk with a terminal, doors to bedroom and wash rack. Knock Out’s quarters were more personalized, of course. Not only had he been in them for more time than Dreadwing had been in his, for most of that time there had been two – no, best not to think of that right now. It would only sober him up.

Knock Out sauntered into Dreadwing’s quarters, threw back the last of his cube, and sprawled out on what he guessed to be the most (relatively) comfortable chair in the room. It was only a fifty-fifty chance, but this one seemed the most used. Then again, being sized for Dreadwing, it wasn’t too bad, even for the furniture equivalent of a drone. Knock Out’s smaller frame barely sank into the cushioning designed for someone much bigger and heavier. The doctor slouched a little further down, cube dangling from his hand.

“You appear to be in need of this,” Dreadwing commented, holding something out.

It took Knock Out a moment to recognize what he was being handed: an actual metal drinking canister. It wasn’t decorated beyond the logo and glyphs of – he had to reread it to be sure – Trypticon Station, but it was millennia since he’d seen or used one instead of a cube. Probably since anyone had. Manufacturing these days tended to be limited to energon, weapons, ammunition, tools, equipment, and anything required for maintenance and repairs. Thankfully, polish was a requirement for Cybertronian health, providing protection and helping repair everyday damage. That wasn’t even including the cosmetic benefits, something many of his fellows had sadly let lapse of late. Really, even aside from one’s appearance, a decent polish was the first defence against things like surface nanite loss and rust infections.

“Well, well,” Knock Out said, accepting the canister. “Aren’t we being civilized tonight?”

Dreadwing seated himself in a second chair, a drinking canister of his own in one hand. Unlike the one he’d given Knock Out, which had been dwarfed in his hand, his was sized for him.

“One must take one’s luxuries where one can, in these times,” he said. “Even if those luxuries,” he raised the canister in indication, “were once commonplace.”

That sounded like exactly the reason Knock Out had a stash of fine waxes. Say what you would about the humans, they knew how to treat their cars. “Couldn’t agree more,” Knock Out said, approvingly, and drank. “Where did you find these?”

“They were in a storage room on one of the lower levels,” Dreadwing explained. “I was searching for a private place to meditate when I came upon them. And when I came upon you.”

“Meditation, huh?” Knock Out said. “A good detailing session always calms me down. That and – “ He saluted Dreadwing with the canister and drank. Deeply. A detailing session helped by Breakdown. Not really an option anymore, was it? Of course the thing that would help best was the one he couldn’t have and never would again. Knock Out took another slug of high-grade to help kill that thought. “Didn’t really think luxury was your thing, though.”

Dreadwing resettled himself in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. “It does no harm to indulge one’s self on occasion. I had thought, also, that you might prefer not to be alone.”

Perceptive, this one. Knock Out shrugged. “Well, misery does love company.”

“Quite true.”

“Well, then. To misery.” Knock Out raised his canister in a toast, didn’t wait to see if Dreadwing returned it, then began to drink and didn’t stop.

***

The first time Knock Out got hammered in Dreadwing’s quarters he did indeed achieve his desired blackout. The hangover the following morning would surely have been _spectacular_ except he woke up still slightly overcharged. At least that meant he could manage it, instead of just being slammed with pain first thing.

He woke up on the fold-out cot in his office in the medbay, rather than in his or Dreadwing’s quarters. Truthfully, he was relieved. Even winding up in Dreadwing’s bed having shared it platonically, and Knock Out did trust the big seeker not to take advantage, would have been awkward. Waking up in his own would have defeated the entire purpose of drinking till he passed out. Just as well he hadn’t then.

Dreadwing never spoke of whatever Knock Out had said or done that night, nor of having carted Knock Out through the Nemesis to his office. It might never have happened at all. Knock Out appreciated his tact. Still, perhaps next time – that is, if there _were_ a next time – maybe he wouldn’t take it quite so far. He had a vague feeling he’d appreciated having company while he’d been burying himself in grief and sorrow.

The next time the urge to get thoroughly sauced hit, he didn’t bother finding somewhere out-of-the-way. He just grabbed a stack of cubes from his sadly diminished stash and knocked on Dreadwing’s door.

“Feel like some company tonight?” Knock Out asked, optic ridge raised, bouncing a cube in one hand.

Dreadwing stepped to the side and gestured him in.

The third time, it was Dreadwing invited him and Knock Out began to think there was a pattern developing here.

“While I would be willing to listen,” Dreadwing began, as Knock Out decanted energon from cube to canisters, “I understand if you are not yet willing to speak of your partner.” Breakdown’s name had never been spoken in these rooms. Knock Out felt like he should be able to say it, but…not just yet. He was relieved Dreadwing wasn’t going to push the matter. Not that encouraging each other to open up and discuss feelings was a very Decepticon thing to do, thank Primus. “But if you are willing, I would very much like to speak to you of Skyquake.”

Knock Out stopped sprawling in his usual chair and sat up a bit more respectfully. The doctor had the feeling this would be much more than just what was generally known about Dreadwing and Skyquake.

“By all means,” Knock Out said, less of his brashness than usual in his voice.

Dreadwing spoke at length, beginning with his earliest memories of being two but one, and continuing to the point he felt his twin’s spark extinguish.

Knock Out listened quietly through the night as Dreadwing told him of the twins’ shared and separate histories. Knock Out didn’t get drunk, respecting Dreadwing’s need for someone to listen. When Dreadwing finished speaking they sat silently for a klik, then Dreadwing rose, indicating the evening was over.

“Thank you for listening to my tale, Knock Out,” Dreadwing said, with a nod of thanks.

“Oh,” Knock Out said in surprise. He hadn’t expected to be thanked. “Uh - you’re welcome.” He paused in the opened doorway. “Dreadwing, for what it’s worth, I won’t say I understand completely, but –“ He shrugged helplessly.

“You understand some.” Something like a smile briefly played with the corners of Dreadwing’s mouth. “And you listened. It is enough.”

Knock Out went back to his quarters with the feeling something had changed, shifted between them. It was a shift Knock Out wasn’t sure he was ready for. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go back, either. Emotions. So difficult at times.

Knock Out went back a fourth time. He didn’t even have a reason, or even much high-grade when he knocked on Dreadwing’s door. Yet, Dreadwing let him in and listened while Knock Out – finally, hesitantly – managed to talk about Breakdown. It was hard. It _hurt_. It still hurt when he was done, but that pain was more like the kind that came after having a part replaced. Pain that came from healing, not damage, even if you’d always know if you thought about it that something had been changed.

The fifth time was short as if they weren’t quite sure where they stood now but didn’t want to break the pattern of whatever this was. Neither Knock Out nor Dreadwing talked much, and that was all right.

The sixth time no one got overcharged. In fact, they barely drank anything. Knock Out told Dreadwing stories of some of the weird and wild injuries he’d seen in his time as a Decepticon medic and succeeded in making the jet laugh. Twice.

The seventh time Dreadwing’s hand was warm on Knock Out’s back as he walked the doctor out. Knock Out wasn’t surprised to feel it there, but he’d thought he’d feel on edge, that it was still too soon. It didn’t. Oh, he wouldn’t say he was anywhere near ready to cross cables with the massive Seeker, but it didn’t seem as impossible as it would have when Dreadwing had found him in the storage room.

The next time Knock Out went racing – _maybe_ stretching the time he was supposed to be off the ship while he was on a mission – he was aware of the big flyer following along high above him. Guarding. Or maybe just keeping him company.

The eighth time, Knock Out brought Dreadwing to the quarters he’d shared with Breakdown, as a test. Dreadwing had looked at him consideringly for a long moment before nodding in acceptance. That visit wasn’t exactly comfortable, it didn’t flow the way their time together had taken to doing. Knock Out couldn’t be sorry it was awkward, though. He’d had to do it, something Dreadwing seemed to understand and graciously accept.

Knock Out’s shadow was missing the next time he got out to race, work commitments and shifts being what they were. But he did get a couple of pings from Dreadwing, just simple checks to make sure he was safe and online. Simple, but strangely reassuring even so.

The ninth time Dreadwing stopped him as soon as the door to the big Seeker’s quarters closed behind him.

“Knock Out,” Dreadwing said seriously, hand on his shoulder. “Tell me what you want from this. Only companionship or something more? Know that either is acceptable to me, I ask only for clarity.”

Knock Out stared up at him. “I – well,” he stammered. “I don’t know what to say.” It was the truth. “Let’s…let me think about it.”

It wasn’t a ‘yes,’ but it wasn’t a ‘no’ either. Dreadwing simply nodded, accepting as always, and poured the high-grade, and the subject didn’t come up again that time.

It didn’t come up the tenth time either and Knock Out began to think his answer had changed. Or, rather, that he _had_ an answer now: not quite yet, but soon.

The eleventh time, Knock Out was mid-story when Dreadwing suddenly got up and came to kneel in front of Knock Out’s chair.

It had been a very, very long time since anyone but Breakdown had looked at the doctor with that kind of interest. Interest, yes, and a request as well. Knock Out considered for a nano-klik, then leaned forward, put a hand on the back of Dreadwing’s neck, and let the flyer close the distance. Dreadwing’s kisses were deep, thorough, and warm. Lingering. The Seeker was gentle in the way Knock Out had found only big mecha could be.

What could he say? He had a type.

The twelfth time ended with Knock Out in Dreadwing’s arms, across his lap, packets of data overflowing with his partner's enjoyment of his presence rushing into him via hardline. Knock Out sent back the feeling of driving down a freshly-paved country road at night, no speed limits, no humans or Cybertronians in sight, just speed and starlight. In return, he was gifted with the joy of flight, cold air on his wings and clouds lit by a bright moon. Knock Out overloaded on the feeling of freefall, so like driving at top speed.

The thirteenth time began where the twelfth had ended: in Dreadwing’s bed, Knock Out wrapped securely in his arms.


End file.
